The Rise of Dragan the Empyreal, Chosen of Slaanesh (WHFB)
by Aristo1
Summary: A series of loosely-related entries that follow the exploits and day-to-day life of my Slaanesh-aligned Chaos Lord, Dragan the Empyreal and his warband of Northmen from all around the western Wastes. Hopefully this will portray the Northmen of the Chaos Wastes as functional members of their respective societies and challenge GW's one-dimensional perceptions of the Chaos Gods.


_Under the light of a pastel moon,_

_Was conceived a child of Aghol blood._  
_Upon his breast was a darkened rune,_  
_In him a great power was to bud._

_Dragan Soloviev was the infant's name,_  
_Chosen of Shornaal he was to be,_  
_Destined for greatness, conquest and fame,_  
_To break his foes and chase as they flee._

_Dragan commanded the respect of his peers,_  
_For he spoke with the might of a greater daemon,_  
_Instilling promises in the Aghols' ears,_  
_Soon he amassed a mighty legion._

_The horde marched across the Wastes,_  
_Descending on the peoples of Naggaroth._  
_For their meats and drink the Northmen acquired tastes,_  
_And plundered their treasures, arms and cloth._

_While dueling the heartless followers of Khaine,_  
_Dragan slew many nobles and their war beasts._  
_Drinking deep of the Druchii's pain,_  
_Shornaal bid him sail to the east._

_Across the Sea of Chaos sails Dragan the Empyreal,_  
_To the thin-skinned folk of the Empire._  
_With the favor of Shornaal and fervent zeal,_  
_He wars to serve the Lord of Desire._

A Note About These Entries:

When writing up more fluff, I want to emphasize the Northmen as being functional members of their respective societies; not simply the frothing barbarians that GW paints them out to be. It's no secret that GW loves to deal in absolutes, and I feel like it misses out on a lot of things. The Northmen have their own ways and civilizations, however different from the southlands they may be.

In terms of Dragan's warband, these Aghols worship the powers of Chaos as naturally as the cycle of the sun; it's just another fact of life that they acknowledge. In particular, Dragan's people are drawn to Slaanesh, referred by them as Shornaal. However, their views and attitudes towards their patron differ slightly from GW's prominent 'virtue vs. vice / everything in excess / succumbing to debauchery over humanity.'

Rather, Slaanesh is a giver of the essential - He provides for their needs as a mother provides for her child. Slaanesh is the god of satisfaction, and ensures the tribe is well-off, and able to pursue their ambitions. His domain also includes crafts, music and leadership - whatever can be regarded as an art or practice, Slaanesh aids his followers in excelling at their craft, and as a result, gaining satisfaction from it.

There's a quote from Realms of Chaos: Slaves to Darkness, page 205 that I like:  
"In what can pleasure be found? Why, anything! Let your imagination run unbound by petty convention. Revel in the acts brought by your knowledge of Slaanesh. Even in the sternest discipline of arms there is satisfaction. So are the Lord of Pleasure's armies brought to the field, willing and ready for the fray. - The Hidden Tome of Slaanesh".

This fact that you can find satisfaction in anything resounds with me, and I think it's an important concept that Slaanesh can transcend the familiar notions of his domain being all about lust and desire, as toted by GW, and can intercede in much more mundane affairs than we realize. For a tribe of the North, the gods are not all about wanton destruction, death, carnality, etc. as the southerners would believe. The gods are just as much about sustenance and day-to-day affairs as the gods of the Empire are to their people.

With all this said, I hope to write up some more coherent background soon and share it here, as well as flesh out my Dragan character.

I haven't decided on an overarching story or title, but I will probably write snippets and pieces on Dragan and his warband, and their lives in the Wastes. Here's a piece I happened to come up with, inspired by tales like _The Were of Fjirgard_, in that it follows an Imperial tradesman exploring the North. It should be noted that while it's revealed Dragan is an Aghol by blood, the warband is currently in Norsca in this entry, recruiting warriors and challenging others.

Entry One: Perceptions

Sebastian Vanderblau drew his cloak tighter around his shoulders, watching his breath vaporize from the cold. Although he had travelled across the length of the Old World, he'd never felt such a bitter chill than that of the Northern Lands. As a trader from Nuln, and a collector of all trinkets eccentric and foreign, Sebastian had sailed out of Marienburg to Norsca to ply his wares and bring back collectibles made by Norse hands. Incidentally, Sebastian was in fact a member of a pleasure cult, and quite enticed with the idea of communing with the Dark Prince in open air, rather than in whispers behind locked doors. To visit the land of the gods themselves was a titillating prospect.

The cold nipped at his cheeks, and Sebastian patted them to reassure himself they hadn't fallen off. A glance over his shoulder revealed that the men he'd brought along - also secretly Slaaneshi cultists - were faring no better than he. In a line they followed their Norse guide - a tall, bronze-haired figure by the name of Rorik. Rorik had assured them they'd find shelter at his settlement close by, and they could shrug off the cold's embrace over mugs of Norscan ale. Sebastian blinked away the flakes of snow in his eyes, and as they trudged through the blizzard, Rorik's destination faded into view.

Sebastian's eyes processed a wide cluster of yurts, fashioned from wood frames and strong felt covers. On them were daubed all manners of runic sigils, while totems hung from their door frames. The runes were painted in all sorts of garish colors - blues from woad plants, purples from shellfish extract, vermillion from cinnabar. Many of these Sebastian recognized as having similar curvature and resemblance to the icons of Slaanesh he'd been accustomed to in the chambers of his society. As the line of Imperials passed through the rows of dwellings, their presence caught the attention of their inhabitants. Much like Rorik, they were large, broad-shouldered folk. Some had pale features with blue eyes, like their guide, while others had hair of black and narrow-set eyes that reminded Sebastian of the peoples of Cathay. The Northmen stopped their business to stare at his entourage, some wearing sneers or grunting to themselves. Some chuckled and gestured. None of them, Sebastian thought, seemed very inviting.

"We're here," said Rorik's voice, after they came to the largest yurt. It was embellished with more elaborate designs than the others, and fine linens were draped around the frame. The entrance was guarded by a pair of warriors, larger still than the other Northmen Sebastian had seen, and were clad in splendid sets of amethyst-colored armor. Snarling faces adorned the plates, accompanied by gold trim and finely-cut gems where the eyes should be. Sebastian shuddered as Rorik opened the dwelling's portal and led them in, wondering if such armor could ever be removed. The few who met them inside the yurt, however, were more resplendent still.

Clad in similar armor but otherwise remarkably more awesome were a trio of warriors, who were seated among cushions of fine silk. They consorted with a huddle of Slaanesh's handmaidens, daemonettes, who flicked their black tongues and bore their pastel, blemishless bodies. They were altogether alluring in their sensuous nature, yet Sebastian felt a ping of nausea travel through his body as their eyes locked upon him. He quickly averted his gaze, seeking some word from Rorik to put him at ease, but the Norseman was bowing, prostrating himself to the figure in the golden throne at the back of the yurt. In a moment of embarrassment, and of fear, he imitated his guide, followed by his men. He had hoped his delayed gesture wouldn't be seen as disrespect.

"I have brought guests, Illustrious One," Rorik had said. "They're southlanders, eager to trade their wares and explore our ways. I gather they have been subject to some exposure of the gods, else they would not be so keen to make it this far." _Exposure to the gods? How did they know?_ Sebastian revealed nothing to Rorik about his role in Nuln's secret societies.

The throned figure leaned forward in his seat, eyes jumping from one Imperial to the next. Sebastian did not dare to raise his head, for it felt like the being referred to as the "Illustrious One" might very well be able to stare into his very soul. Finally, he felt a weight he could not explain lift from his shoulders, and risked a peek towards Rorik, who now stood at full height.

"Indeed you have, Rorik," the throne-bound Northman spoke. "Which of you southmen is the ringleader here?" Sebastian felt a shudder of dread wash through him, and slowly rose to meet his interrogator's eyes. He stood there for a moment, mouth agape, for the man before him was like no other he'd seen before. Like his warriors, he wore armor, yet it was lacquered a deep red, almost black, like ichor from a grave wound. It bore many sigils and leering faces on the knees and shoulders, like grinning medusae. The trim was polished to a golden sheen, so bright that it tickled Sebastian's eyes. Slaanesh's icon was emblazoned on the chosen's breastplate, which seemed to glitter and shine with a pulsing rhythm of its own. Upon further inspection, his feet had been transformed into cloven hooves, like that of a goat. The Northman's face was the last thing Sebastian dared to behold, and he was transfixed to it longer than the other aspects of his being. His skin was as fair as the daemonettes at his heels, and his facial structure well-defined, like the ancient statues of marble warriors from ages long passed. A set of horns protruded from a layer of raven hair, three, in fact - six gently curved horns in total. His eyes were but black orbs, sinister, yet alluring, as Sebastian found it difficult to tear his gaze from them.

"Lost for words?" The sentence barley registered in Sebastian's mind, and when it had, he flung himself on the ground, begging with watery eyes and quivering lips. "M-my Lord!" he stammered, "I, Sebastian Vanderblau, am indebted to your splendor! Champion of the Dark Prince, please share with me His pleasures, I beg of you!" A smile formed on the lord's face, and he stood from his throne, stepping with a measured grace towards the Imperial.

"His pleasures?" he echoed. "What manner of pleasures do you sate in the corners of the city, hidden from the people? What indulgences do you take part in with your aged wines and elaborate rituals? What desires do you pursue with the men and women of your covens, under the darkest shades of night, where none can see?"

Shaken and paralysed to his core, Sebastian found his lips move on their own accord, compelled to answer the angel before him with a will not of his own. "We dine of the sweetest of meats, the choicest of fruits and ingest the most exotic of powders to drive our consciousness into bliss! We succumb to the flesh, exploring our bodies in ways considered unnatural to the Priests of Sigmar! We consign ourselves to rapturous performances of theatre and dance, drunk off the blood of those victims we bring into the coven and have wrought the most intricate of art from their bodies! We truly are servants of the most high, Slaanesh!"

"So you say," the Northman muttered. The next thing Sebastian felt was a heavy lance of pain in his abdomen, and he looked down at the silvery dagger stuck in his body. "Servants of the gods? You?" The blade twisted, and Sebastian gasped, unable to speak, clawing the air at random. "To think the frail men of the south could understand the gods is a laughable folly. Your pathetic covens and cults, vainly praising foreign gods in acts of depravity and desperation. You hide behind closed doors, cowering from your fellows out of fear of discovery. You entertain yourselves with grandeurs of luxury, too opulent to properly serve the gods you assume to worship. You do not know the gods. You do not know what it means to live under an angry sky, among beasts, among daemons. You do not know what it means to fight for your very survival in the Wastes. You do not know Shornaal - to ask and receive His blessing. To hone your skills with a blade as to kill any creature in a single stroke. To perfect your strategy against those who oppose you. To have a warband to fight for. To have food to last through the winter. No, you do not know a thing about the gods. You are the lowest excuse for a man to think you could ever know what it means to serve Chaos."

Sebastian heaved ragged breaths, eyes still locked with his killer's before going limp. Dragan the Empyreal pulled his weapon from the body, letting it slump to the ground before the rest of the Imperials, who for a reason they could not explain, were unable to flee. "Go back to your weakling Empire and tell your covens what I have told you today. Disband, abandon your practices and whatever delusions of Chaos you have created. You have your god and I have mine. And when the time comes, we shall see who's is stronger." With that, the men of Nuln found their bodies in their control again, and they flung themselves from the yurt, screaming through the snow.


End file.
